


written into stone and smoothed with sand

by wintervioleteye (hawkguyed)



Series: one out of many and all of them the same [12]
Category: Bourne Legacy (2012), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Aaron Cross is Clint Barton-verse, Crossover, Gen, M/M, Post Movie, breaking memory barriers, who are you my friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkguyed/pseuds/wintervioleteye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are drugs in his system but he's never had a moment more clear than this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	written into stone and smoothed with sand

**Author's Note:**

> Where do I start. This is uh, a sequel to 'indelible is the ink', and uhm. Yes. Working with too little material here!

He wakes up in a hospital room (at least, he thinks it is), the antiseptic smell heavy in the clinically white room. There's the sensation of a needle in his arm and bandages over his chest and maybe a cast on his leg; he's not quite sure because he's drugged up to the gills on painkillers. He's not even sure how he'd gotten here, either. Consciousness is still slippery in his grasp, and there are still occasional tumbles into the dark, but he's awake enough to hear snatches of conversation from just outside the curtain. 

Russian, he thinks. Tasha, the tinny voice in his head reprimands, and his mind starts to pick out words that it instinctively recognizes even though he doesn't remember having ever had Russian words roll off his tongue so fluently. 

Things like _head trauma_ and _amnesia_ jump out at him. He wonders why he pictures a redhead gesturing wildly as the cadence of her voice rises and falls. It's almost soothing despite the hint of anger and resignation that laces it, and he can't help but be coaxed away from the sharp edges of reality even when a man's voice joins in, a little hoarse and broken and Aaron can't explain the quiet happiness that bubbles up when he hears the second voice. 

His eyes start to slip shut as he is lulled back into a doze, tucked away behind the relative safety of a curtain and under thin, hospital issue sheets. He can't quite explain the fleeting thought that Phil will keep him safe before he slips under, but a little part of him knows that it's true. 

Phil always keeps him safe.

\--

Clint Barton has been missing in action fourteen months and twelve weeks when they find the unconscious form of Aaron Cross in a HYDRA base, and Natasha has never seen that look in Phil's eyes as the man kicks in the final door standing between them and the prisoner.

\--

He dreams. Sometimes it leaves a fuzzy feeling but most of the time the claws of a nightmare are sunk deep under his skin. He tosses and turns and tangles his limbs in the sheet.

He dreams of men in suits and train yards and falling down tunnels with a cheerful ‘I’ll catch you’, drifting in and out, sometimes seeing that one-eyed man in a chair, and the name, that name echoing around his mind. 

Clint. 

Clint Barton. 

He knows the name, like a tiny, shining portion of himself that’s been lost, drowned under the memories and burden of Outcome. He remembers a little more of a life before he’d been found in Reno, memories of Phil - his Phil - who barely smiles and calls him Barton in the office, little details that start to finally shine through the cracks of what starts to feel more and more like the CIA’s fabrication. 

Aaron shifts a little, eyes opening just a fraction. 

“Clint.” It’s a little odd rolling off his tongue, but there’s also something that seems right, a puzzle piece clicking into place, as if this name suits him more than Aaron. He scrunches up his face as he tries to say it again, thinking that maybe he should append ‘world’s greatest’ to somewhere behind the name. 

“So you remember?” 

It doesn’t entirely startle him, the familiar cadence drifting over from the corner (he expects to see paperwork when he glances over because Phil is never without it); instead it makes the goofy smile on his face widen. The drugs are still in his system, painkillers and whatnot, but he’s never been able to see more clearly. 

“Not all of it. Bits and pieces, mostly.” It’s almost sheepish, as he runs still bandaged fingers through messy spikes. “Hi Phil.” 

His memory might still be a little fuzzy, but Clint doesn’t miss the tiny hint of a smile that curls the edges of Phil’s lips.


End file.
